


Some People Find It Pleasurable

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Downplaying Rape, Gen, Internalized Acephobia, Medical examination abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, References to possible torture abuse or self harm, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From bbcsherlockkinkmeme prompt: <i>"Sherlock gets a check up by a doctor who got highly touchy, grope-y and creepy. He tries to forget it and has to come to terms with himself - that he was affected by it. John can't get Sherlock to tell him what's wrong, and notices worrying signs and while he has seen those in patients who have experienced sexual assault, John can't be sure it's the same reason for Sherlock's changes. Sherlock feels humiliated and embarrassed about what happened AND about his reaction to it after. Sherlock doesn't want to press charges/notify anyone and Sherlock and John argue over this."</i><br/>{Author's Note: A surprising number of people have gone through something similar to this... including me.}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Changes

Sherlock sighed and returned something-- which looked far too much like human skin for John's comfort level-- to the Petri dish, whilst John remained steadfastly determined _not_ to find out precisely what it was.

"Nothing more to be done here until the breakdown of the tissue is complete. Chinese? Indian? No, wait... there's a chips place. Part of town I haven't visited in quite some time."

John grinned. _Only Sherlock Holmes could shift effortlessly from decomposing flesh to a lunch date (well, a sort of lunch date)... and only I could find it so goddamn amusing._

Some time ago, John had been a little leery of takeaway (after being kidnaped during his last attempt at it), and it was Sherlock who had convinced him that was a ridiculous reason to forgo curry or potstickers in front of the telly. Now, it was Sherlock who nixed delivery boys at 221B. He especially resented anyone stopping by unexpectedly. Even when Lestrade had visited unannounced, Sherlock had silently urged John to move away from the windows and act as if they were out. When later questioned, he shrugged it off as not being prepared to deal with idiocy so early in the morning, and that he would doubtless be contacting him soon via text, in any case. He was, of course, correct.

Often, Sherlock didn't even emerge from his room until mid-afternoon. John assumed he was up late, catching up on abandoned experiments, maybe reading... there certainly was a mess of papers and magazines strewn about his normally tidy, sparse bedroom. Whatever he was doing, he was being very considerate of John's need for a good night's sleep; he was always very quiet. John secretly wished Sherlock would resume playing his violin well into the night. He had missed that. 

It was a month after Sherlock's return, and John was just now beginning to understand his near desperate need to head out of the flat, despite the chilly air, and remap parts of his city. The occasional shortcut that didn't quite work - what was once an abandoned lot, recently transformed into an impassible storefront - pained him. Though Sherlock still hadn't said much, it was perfectly clear, even to the most dim observer, that Sherlock had not been in London during his "death." John couldn't bear to think of it in those terms: "his death". He simply referred to it as "when he was gone." Sherlock embraced the euphemism.

"Still here. Good. Would hate to have been deprived of extra portions of better quality chips."

John grabbed a table at the tiny, brightly-lit restaurant... a sea shanty-themed place in a safe, but dreadfully touristy, neighbourhood. A bubbly server practically skipped over to them and told them they could sit anywhere they wanted and that she would be back in a jiff. John glanced up at the plastic lobster mounted on the wall. Hardly the type of place he would have expected Sherlock to choose.

"No. Not there." Sherlock swept across the room to a table in the far corner, backed against the wall. "Here." He quickly angled his chair for a clear view of the door and a fairly adequate one of the side windows, without being directly in front of them. John thought he noticed him exhale.

The chips were quite good. On the way back, Sherlock continued to scan the surrounding buildings for changes in tenancy. John smiled. "Worried a lot has changed, then? Since you've been gone?"

"More than I could ever hope to explain," he said, simply.


	2. Injuries

He strode to the table and lifted the specimen with tweezers, checking the underside, but the... thing... managed to slip back into the dish as if it were still alive, splattering small amounts of acid upon the table. Muttering under his breath, Sherlock quickly grabbed the nearest towel in an attempt to spare the table further damage. The concentration was fairly dilute, but it still managed to etch itself slowly into the wood. He disposed of the cloth in the bright yellow biohazard bag John had insisted upon and continued on with the experiment. It was a full five minutes before Sherlock stopped, walked over to where John was busying himself with the teakettle, and ran his hand under the tap. As John began the preparation, he became gradually aware that Sherlock was not simply washing his hands- he was flushing water over a burn on his wrist from the splattered acid. John peered at the injury. It was far worse than he thought.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Let me get something for that!" 

He hurried off for bandages, while Sherlock called after him that it was unnecessary. John insisted upon treating it anyway, ignoring how Sherlock pulled his hand away from his touch and claimed he didn't need any examination. Twice, he had stopped himself from asking whether he had been too absorbed in the experiment to notice the burning of his skin, or whether he had been at a crucial stage and did not wish to ruin a particularly time sensitive reaction by ...rinsing the _acid_ off his hand. 

John decided he probably didn't want to know.

"Sherlock, you will need a decent antibiotic for that. Chemical burns are nothing to shrug off."

"Then you can bring some home for me tomorrow. I've no need of anything apart from what you have already provided for tonight."

"I should just schedule you to come in. I don't know that you've ever even had a proper medical exam, anyway."

"When I... came back... Mycroft insisted on a full medical exam. I was never particularly good at self-care, and, some of the inj..." he checked himself. "Some of the situations I found myself in were hazardous to my health."

John took in, then let out, a deep breath and appeared to be mentally counting to ten. "You were... captured. While you were out there playing dead, you were bloody captured. And you... you neglected to say anything for..." John felt his fists clench of their own accord. "No. No. Not going to go there. Not going to...," he spoke directly to the tea leaves. "God, and you just let me beat you to a bloody pulp when you came back." He placed two cups on a tray, crossed to his chair and sat. "How long were you in recovery before you came to the restaurant?"

"I came immediately, John. I, cleaned up a bit, got properly dressed, groomed. I told Mycroft I already had a doctor and I intended to see him that night. But. Things didn't quite go as planned."

"No. No, they didn't, did they?"

John attempted a smile, and Sherlock returned it, only the tiniest fraction more successfully. 

"I had no idea. I hope I didn't exacerbate any of your injuries." _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck that would explain far too much. God knows what happened to him in captivity._

After learning Sherlock was still alive, John had always, rather resentfully, pictured him having spent the "when you were gone"-time hanging out in some posh hotel, trotting around London both hiding and being clever, spying on him from street corners in some elaborate disguise. No. He had been a prisoner. Deprived of sleep and food? Chained? Beaten? Tortured and raped, even? He'd seen his share of POWs... men he had treated who had never disclosed precisely what they had endured, instead choosing to let the severity of their injuries speak volumes for them. He patched up their bodies and grieved for the damage done to their minds.

Given the new perspective, the ways Sherlock seemed different after coming back home began to make more sense. The depressive states were not uncommon before, but now they were broken up by hyper-vigilance. The lack of body awareness and disdain for his "transport" was also nothing new, or was that actually a covert attempt at self-harm? A shift from neglecting his body as a distant second to his brain to actively seeking to punish his body through neglect? Greg had even mentioned hearing Sherlock berating himself while working some crime scenes with him shortly after his return (before John had forgiven him for his deception and joined him on his cases), but John had thought little of it. Perhaps because he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, it hadn't seemed significant. Now it all did.

Sherlock watched him... read every thought, no doubt. "You did not harm me, do not concern yourself with that. I tried to convince Mycroft the injuries I had sustained were minor and required no special treatment, but he would have none of it. Ordered a ridiculous amount of medical testing, even updated my tetanus vaccination. And I was made to choose a doctor by the end of the week. I wasn't so keen on seeing someone who would likely turn over my records to my brother before I even got a chance to review them myself, so I selected a locum GP, someone I _thought_ was more duty bound to follow protocol." He turned as if to head to his room, then abruptly chose to sit in his chair, opposite John, instead.


	3. Routine Physical

"Not so predictably standard then? He give the records to 'im anyway?"

"No. Not so standard in other ways." He reached for the cup John had placed between them and took a sip. "I'll admit, I couldn't honestly remember when my last medical exam was. Even managed to avoid them back when I studied judo." He waved his hands dismissively, "Forgot the form a couple of times and the instructor seemed to forget as well."

"It's all right if you are a bit phobic. A lot of people are."

"I'm not phobic."

"I didn't mean to imply that you were, just... just that it would be fine _if_ you were."

"Hmm."

"I've been wanting to screen you for anaemia myself. You eat little enough as is. Full range of tests then? EKG too?"

"Yes, and a psychiatrist for an evaluation and BDI as well. She wasn't too thrilled about what she termed the 'somatic component' of the results. I argued that my supposed 'issues' surrounding appetite, sleep patterns and interest in sex were more indicative of my innate nature than any underlying pathology, since there was no sudden change in behaviour. She reluctantly agreed."

John smiled. "Knew you weren't a sociopath, you git."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't tell. Donovan would be so disappointed; it would break her heart." He placed the tea back on the tray. "I did manage to dissuade Mycroft from ordering a lumbar puncture, as I was experiencing no relevant symptoms and I rather disliked the prospect of a spinal headache. Along with a routine physical, I agreed to a gait evaluation, glucose tolerance test, full metabolic panel, TB test, STI screening, drug screening of course..."

"Hell, I'm surprised they didn't give you a pap and pelvic."

"Who said they didn't? Male equivalent at least, given the lack of uterus."

John furrowed his brow. "Any lower pelvic pain? Blood in stools? Trouble urinating?"

Sherlock leaned back slightly in his chair. "No."

"Well, it's just that, without obvious symptoms, that one wouldn't be due for another 20 years. Ten at least, even with a family history. I understand your brother wanting you to have every test he could possibly think of... I mean, a gait study is hardly necessary, but could prove useful, and if you've been on the streets one could make a good argument for the TB. God knows if they're taking blood anyway might as well check organ function, malnutrition, hidden diseases and such, and not to order a drug screen in your case would, no offense..."

"Most likely none taken..."

"... be pure idiocy... but a prostate cancer screen? I just don't see any way that would be necessary."

"I didn't either, but it was the physician who was rather insistent upon it even though it wasn't ordered. Said it fell under the heading of "routine physical". Said... Said since I couldn't answer as to if I had pain with intercourse to his satisfaction, he would need to provide an extended exam. I thought it best not to protest."

John found himself repeating the word without ever consciously choosing to do so. "Extended?"


	4. Violation of Will

"Yes. I think my word choice was succinct. I see no need to elaborate."

"Well, ummm. That sounds a lot like..."

"What?" Sherlock interrupted. "What, in your learned medical opinion, does it sound a lot like?"

John squared his shoulders and looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. "That. Sounds a lot like rape. Unnecessary prolonged contact of a sexual nature, complete with flimsy victim-blaming excuse."

 _Brilliant. Now you've gone too far._ John knew he should have treaded a bit more lightly.

"I'm well aware that it was both inappropriate and unnecessary."

"You've filed charges, then?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, in this case I think I actually agree. Mycroft might just have a better way to address the situation."

"I did not inform Mycroft. And you won't either."

"So you're perfectly content to let a rapist go free?"

"It wasn't rape, John."

John sprung to his feet and paced. "Like hell, it wasn't. You're going to find a way to convince yourself that what he did _was_ medically necessary and appropriate, aren't you?"

"I didn't say it was either. I just said it wasn't rape. The statute is rather clear. Rape, from a legal standpoint, requires penetration with a penis, pure and simple. They consider...," he crossed to an unwieldy book on the shelf, thumbed through to a page, "first, the degree of harm to the victim; second, the level of culpability of the offender; and third, the level of risk posed by the offender to society. Considering the first is negligible, and the second is questionable at best, the third will become largely irrelevant due to lack of proof. The law also requires the perpetrator's lack of belief in consent for it to be a provable crime. If someone genuinely and reasonably believed they were participating in a consensual act, then they would not be convicted. It is a case I will never win, for a lesser crime barely worth pursuing."

"Negligible harm?"

"Oh please, John. As if this experience is going to ruin my non-existent sex life and contaminate my future enjoyment of the act."

John struggled for a proper and controlled response. He simply wasn't quick enough. "Sherlock, you're letting this... man... keep you silent? That is not like you."

"I'm in the papers enough as is; it is already considerably difficult to maintain any degree of anonymity. Besides, do you really think my reputation can handle this? Not exactly the whispers I want to have surrounding my name. Nothing is more important than my work. It would be a deterrent for some potential clients."

 _Think, Watson, think._ "Are you telling me if it earned you positive publicity... earned you recognition for being brave enough to stand up to this man who doesn't deserve to be called a physician, who's done this to God knows how many other people, Sherlock, and to get him locked away... if it helped your career, are you saying you would do it?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed. "Quit bullying me, John. It's not enough I dealt with a violation of my will at the whim of a stranger- I do not want to be badgered into going through it all again by a friend just so he can be found not guilty and... I don't want to do this! The answer is no. No!" He dropped his head into his hands and turned toward the back of his chair. The only sound was Sherlock's laboured breath. John sat back down and let the silence fill the room before he finally spoke.

"You didn't say it, did you? You didn't have to, you know. Provable or not, he knew what he was doing, believe me. And you didn't have to tell him to stop for it to have been ra... _assault_. It's fine if you don't want to tell anyone, but I think sharing what happened, even with just one person, would help. To get it out of your head?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, to my surprise, England's legal definition of rape by the Sexual Offenses Act of 2003. I'm no legal scholar, and if didn't feel quite like delving into rape law at length, so my apologies if I'm a little off in my interpretation, but I think I got the gist of it. The rest of the quote is legal interpretation on prosecuting these types of crimes. To be honest, I'm not sure how rape is defined in my state (USA)... it might not be any different. I just felt like it would serve to both downplay its significance in his mind and give him a suitable distraction point if he chooses to dwell a bit on the technicality.  
> Also, I felt a few digs at his sexuality while on a self-hatred binge was appropriate in this case...hence his view that not having intercourse was to blame for the sequence of events, and that its effect was negligible because it didn't suddenly ruin his positive perception of sex. As an asexual, it hurt to write that bit.


	5. No Reason at All

Sherlock was still twisted away, body contorted, though now he faced the fireplace. 

"I didn't even try to stop him, John. I could have stopped him, but I didn't. I'd never... at first he asked me if it was painful, and, I told him it wasn't. I'm certain to obtain a sample of seminal fluid one must provide a reasonably adequate level of stimulation, but.. it changed. It changed and I'm not sure exactly when, or how. The sensations were, new, and, I was, cataloging them, focusing on how it felt, and he said something else, but I couldn't hear him. Something about if it was pleasurable, or some people finding it pleasurable, I think. I can't say I found it pleasurable, exactly. Just, odd. Different from anything I'd felt previously. I don't know what I said. I don't know if I even said anything at all. He leaned in entirely too closely. I could feel his body against my back. I didn't expect him to feel so warm. Maybe I just felt cold." He drew his body in tighter, bringing his knees to his chest, burying his head in the gap between.

"Do you want me to...? Can, I?" John leaned into Sherlock's chair and cautiously laid a hand on his shoulder, not knowing if he would flinch away or collapse into him. Sherlock turned back to face John, took a deep breath, and straightened his posture, smoothing out his suit jacket with both hands.

"There. So that's supposed to exorcise the demons, is it? Did it make you feel useful?" His grin was unnerving. "Tell me, John. Why didn't I simply read him? You know I did. I knew what was about to happen. And I let it happen."

"Sherlock. You weren't familiar with what was part of the procedure and what was..."

"Really now, John? About when do you think the average person would realise something was very wrong? Let's say they are a little slow on the uptake." He hit the final syllable harshly. "Do you think they'd realise before or after he had his hand wrapped around their prick, John?" 

John closed his eyes and clenched his jaw tight. "It doesn't matter, Sherlock. What anyone else would or would not have done doesn't matter in the least. Doesn't matter what you did either. You did whatever got you through it. No wrong choices. Just a wrong situation that you didn't create."

Sherlock turned back away again. The silence eventually broke.

"I don't think about them. The victims. Irrelevant. I don't think about why they ended up in the alley with their throat cut. I want to be in the criminal's head. I want to know what they thought, so I can know who they are, and where to find them. This time, I know. Who he is. Where to find him. It doesn't matter." He chuckled drily. "It's not even a one. I'm exhausted. I want to go to sleep."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Here. In this room. While you watch crap telly and drink more tea and maybe check on responses to your blog."

"I'll be here. If you need me."

Sherlock managed a weak smile. "Now why would I do that?"

"No reason at all, Sherlock." John reached for his shoulder, touched it lightly again and smiled. "No reason at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to hear any feedback from readers. Thanks for following this!


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